Lapis Magazine

The Last Place on Earth by Keiran Mulvaney

Once Antarctica takes a grip on your soul, it never lets go. 

Kieran Mulvaney was a member of three Antarctic expeditions with Greenpeace, the subject of a forthcoming autobiographical book, The Whaling Diaries, to be published by Rufus Publications. He is now Senior Writer for SeaWeb, an ocean conservation education initiative of The Pew Charitable Trusts. He wrote the main text of the Greenpeace Book of Dolphins (New York: Sterling, 1990) and Witness: twenty-five years on the environmental front line (London: Andre Deutsch, 1996). He lives in Washington DC.

The Antarctic Convergence is an invisible, but very real, boundary that guards the entrance to the last place on Earth. It is here that the cold, polar waters of the Antarctic meet the warmer, temperate waters of the Atlantic, Indian, and Pacific Oceans. Cross the Antarctic Convergence and you enter another realm.

The clash of warm and cold waters produces a cloud of mist which envelopes our ship for hours. Temperatures plummet, the wildlife changes. Before meeting the Convergence, we are part of the rest of the world. Once we exit the mist on the other side, we have crossed the line. The rest of the planet is north of us; only Antarctica lies ahead.

The misty gates close behind us, evening drifts lazily over the sky, and aurora flicker and flash overhead, ghostly green phantoms heralding our arrival. We have been traveling for 18 days, since we left the dirty, oppressive humidity of Singapore. We have been steaming steadily south, through clear blue seas and beneath bright, cloudless skies, past flying fish and sea snakes and dolphins leaping off our bow. Slowly, almost inexorably, the temperature has been dropping, the winds have grown stronger and the skies taken on a more menacing hue. All the while, the length of the journey has only served to heighten the sense of expectation and anxiety. Now we have crossed a line that few know even exists, and we are in the Antarctic. Antarctica, more than anywhere else on Earth, is a place of superlatives. It is the highest, driest, windiest, coldest, most remote continent on Earth, surrounded by the stormiest stretch of ocean in the world.

* * *

The Antarctic ice sheet is so thick that entire mountain ranges, the height of the Alps, lie buried below its surface. There is less precipitation here than in the Sahara; in one area, the Dry Valleys, it has not rained or snowed in the last two million years. Two-hundred mph winds scream down from the dry, icy plateau at the continent's heart, tearing through anyone and anything in their path. At its most severe, the temperature plunges deep below the limits of human endurance: the coldest temperature ever recorded on the surface of the Earth, an unimaginably cold -89.6 degrees, was logged here.

Surrounding this hostile, inhospitable land is the raging Southern Ocean, a protective barrier that keeps the rest of the world at a long arm's length. The nearest continent, South America, is 600 miles away across the Drake Passage. Australia lies over 1,500 miles distant; South Africa, 2,500.

Thousands of miles and another world away from the rest of the planet, life in the Antarctic struggles to eke out a tenuous hold. Plant life is exceedingly rare, and limited to a few areas along the coast. The sudden and unexpected sight of a tiny patch of moss leaps out at you, luminous green jarring in sharp contrast to the endless expanse of white and gray. Walking in some coastal areas is a delicate task, requiring constant attention: in Antarctica's harsh environment, an accidental footprint in a moss bed will stay there for decades. There are times when, after returning from the Antarctic, it has actually taken me a day or two to feel comfortable with the prospect of walking on grass again.

It is difficult to spend any time here without developing an increased appreciation for the tenacity of life. I stand on the bridge of our ship and marvel at the tiny, fragile snow petrels, delicate and pure white, smaller than a sparrow, wings beating furiously as they fly above the waves, skimming just above the water and battling through gales that have forced all of us to close the doors tight and retreat to the warmth below decks. Then there are the skuas: big, brash, and loud, the seagulls of the Southern Ocean. They have something of a mean reputation, earned from their tendency to swoop down on penguin colonies, preying on chicks and eggs; in too many text books and encyclopedias, they are given short shrift compared to their flightless brethren. But after three expeditions to the ice, I have become fond of them, a fondness born of respect. It is, after all, hard to be a scavenger when there is so little to scavenge.

Even the natural forces of decay and decomposition are held at bay here. Antarctica is like a shrine, unchanging, bearing witness to events that have taken place decades, even centuries ago. On Ross Island, the hut that was the base for Scott's final expedition still stands, repaired and refurbished a little by the New Zealand Government, but otherwise unchanged in over 80 years. Inside, all lies the way it was left, as if its inhabitants had simply stepped outside for a while. A copy of The Field (The Country Gentleman's Newspaper) lies on the dining table. It reports of London on 30 May 1908 that "There has been more rain than is suitable for the time of the year." Scott's spare boots, gloves, a shirt, and a coat are neatly arranged by his bunk; The Green Flag and Other Stories of War by Arthur Conan Doyle waits for someone to finish reading it. Food is stacked on the shelves; a stuffed penguin stands sentry at the scientist's desk.

Outside, there are scraps of wood and metal left over from the hut's construction and operation. A dead husky, teeth bared in a permanent snarl, is still chained to the wall. Farther along the beach, a mummified seal lies where it fell, unknown numbers of decades ago.

Today, it is beautiful; Antarctica is calm, placid, and welcoming. But it can turn in a matter of minutes, and nothing can ever be taken for granted. It has taken us a day to step ashore and retrieve the shore party we landed a few days ago; even as the ship sat just a few hundred yards away, we were helpless to pick them up until the wind that had appeared from nowhere died down. They were perfectly safe, of course, secure and snug inside their tent. But high up on the hill, overlooking the cape, a huge cross stands silhouetted against the evening sky, a stark reminder of the angry side of Antarctica, and of the ultimate toll that it has exacted on many of those who have sought to challenge it.

* * *

For millions upon millions of years, Antarctica lay unseen and untouched by humans. Even by the middle of the 18th century, its nature, and even its very existence, were subjects only of speculation and wonder.

The end to Antarctica's isolation came with shocking suddenness. In 1775, James Cook returned from the first recorded voyage south of the Antarctic Circle; barely had the ink dried on his account of the expedition than waves of merchants and hunters were heading south in search of the profits to be made from the fur seals Cook had found in abundance.

In 1800, a mere 25 years after Cook discovered and claimed the island, 122,000 fur seals were recorded as being slaughtered on South Georgia in just four months. Just 22 years later, sealing captain James Weddell wrote of the island's seal population that "these animals are now almost extinct". After the fur seals, the sealers bludgeoned their way through herds of elephant seals, and killed king penguins to fuel the fires which heated the pots in which the elephant seals' blubber was rendered to extract the oil the sealers sought.

The Antarctic's whales escaped longer: they were too fast and too far out to sea for the whaling vessels of the time. But when their turn came, their exploitation was yet more dramatic and extreme. The first Antarctic whaling operation shot its first whale a few days before Christmas, 1904. Within 30 years, the average annual kill was more than 30,000 whales; by the beginning of the 1940s, it was over 40,000. Commercial whaling was finally brought to a halt, more or less, in the late 1980s; today, the Southern Ocean has been declared a whale sanctuary. But the seas that once teemed with whales are now home to far fewer, and some species are present in just a few per cent of their original numbers.

As whale numbers diminished, attention turned to the continent itself. The realization around the middle of this century that, deep beneath Antarctica's ice sheet, lie untapped stores of minerals – gold, silver, uranium, oil, and others — set off a frenzy of interest in the mainland. Countries jostled with each other for rights to exploit the hidden riches, establishing bases around the continent – ostensibly to conduct scientific research, but in practice at least as much to try and assert some degree of sovereignty that would translate into mining rights.

For a while, the last true wilderness area on Earth seemed about to be transformed into a giant mining operation. But, at the last moment, in a rare fit of global sanity, the world took a step back from the brink. A draft international agreement governing minerals exploitation in the Antarctic was discarded and a new protocol banning mining for at least 50 years, and imposing strict new rules and regulations protecting the Antarctic environment, was adopted in its place.

But now, there is a still more ominous threat. Before we leave the Antarctic, a section of a nearby ice shelf — one of the greatest in Antarctica, several hundred square miles of ice, millions of years in the making — breaks apart, calving giant icebergs that drift quietly north and disappear. Not long afterward, another, similarly enormous, section follows suit. It is, say British scientists, definitive proof of the early stages that climate change is breaking and melting the west Antarctic ice sheet.

What Nature has taken eons to create, our species has destroyed in decades. Antarctica, the last place on Earth to be subjected to a human presence, is the first to show the evidence of humanity's most pervasive impact on the planet. The very geography of the continent is changing, and it is our fault.

The news receives some coverage in the media, as well as it should, but nothing, to my mind, like the attention it merits. I want there to be shock, outrage, a call for action, a recognition of the severity and significance of what has happened. But there is none. Our collective psyche has already been braced for this impact: it was predicted that this would happen, and now it is happening. It's a problem, and it isn't good, but what we can we do about it? We can't worry about everything now, can we?

But I worry. I worry a lot. I worry that yet more changes will take place to the Antarctic before enough people notice what is happening, let alone before enough is done to stop those changes in their tracks. I worry that our last chance to keep somewhere on Earth that is unspoiled, unpolluted, the way it was before humans ever saw it, is disappearing before our very eyes. I feel like a close friend is dying, and that nobody cares.

* * *

Antarctica caresses the senses and assails the emotions. I do not expect that I shall ever see anywhere more breathtakingly beautiful. I do not believe that such a place exists, not on this planet.

I adore Antarctica. I adore it not because I like the cold — though I do; not even because of the crisp, clean air; or the magnificent mountain ranges, looking for all the world like a giant, painted movie backdrop. I adore it not just for the icebergs, shining bright white and cobalt blue — even though, after we have spent weeks patrolling the Southern Ocean, starved of visual cues beyond gray sky, white-flecked waves, and wandering albatross, we gaze at each new berg with an intensity that threatens to melt it. I adore it not only for the wildlife, although there is a tremendous sense of excitement and privilege at being approached by a curious penguin, waddling up to train its myopic vision on you and satisfy itself you're not one of its kind; or in watching in awe as a humpback whale plays in the water beside you, approaching so close that you swear you feel the ship shudder as the whale rubs its back against the keel.

I adore it for all these reasons, but none of them alone, or even all of them together, can account for the extreme feelings I have toward the Antarctic. There is something else, something mystical about the experience of being in the Antarctic, of being a select member of a fortunate few to have crossed the barrier and entered a unique and special place.

I have tried to analyze it, to understand it, to put it into words. But it is hard; I'm not sure that I can do it. Being in the Antarctic is like being a member of a secret society, like being entitled to witness something so remarkable, so profoundly beautiful, so quiet and peaceful, so beyond anything that could be encountered anywhere else, that there truly seem to be no words adequate to describe it. Indeed, the experience somehow transcends written or verbal expression; even if the right words were available, then using them would somehow cheapen the emotion, it seems. Like any secret society, only the members can truly appreciate the ties that bind them together, can understand the shared experiences, can speak the language of obsession and grasp its meaning.

We are scattered around, we members of that society, initiates who have come away from the Antarctic deeply affected and moved by the things we have seen, our outlook on life permanently shaped by what we have felt at the ice. When we get together, it is all we can talk about, our eyes betraying our emotions: alternately glistening with excitement at the opportunity to share our feelings and memories with someone of like mind, and falling into a far-off gaze, as we picture ourselves in the scenes we are describing, and wish we were there still.

For all the strength of feeling we share, there is an ambiguity to our passion. Many of us, much as we adore Antarctica, also fear it. Once, I swore that I hated it, hated it for what it had put me through: for the intensity of the experience, the powerful feelings of isolation and disconnection, the sense of impotence in the face of its tempestuous might, and the desperate feelings of longing and loss when forced to leave it behind.

I hated it specifically for what it had done to me, and my companions, during one expedition in particular. Surrounded by swirling fog and battered by hurricane-force storms, trapped and frustrated on board a small ship in a hostile sea, we could see nothing beyond our own failings and inadequacies, which we inflicted on each other in a spiraling cycle of bickering and jealousies. And all the while, Antarctica pounded us, reminding us — as if reminder were needed — of its overpowering presence. A freak wave destroyed the helicopter as it sat on the deck. Another picked up one of the crew and threw him down, knocking him out. A three-month expedition, conceived with much hope and expectation, turned into a hundred days of hell.

I swore then that I wouldn't return, that I could never again face the punishment of alternating pain and ecstasy that the Antarctic inflicts. But time heals, and the call is strong. Besides, the choice was not entirely mine to make. Antarctica owns me. It has reached deep inside me and torn out a piece of my soul to keep for its own. I realize now that I can never be entirely whole unless I am there, bundled up against the cold, breathing in the crisp, clean air and marveling at the light reflecting off glaciers and mountains.

For sure, there are periods when I think it is all behind me, that the Antarctic is out of my system, that I have moved on and am ready to live the rest of my life. Sometimes, that feeling can persist a while: a year, two years, maybe more. But then the emptiness begins to hurt. The call of the ice starts to resonate. Images and memories fill my thoughts and dreams, and I know then that it is time to return. And when I do, I know also that a part of me will be there already, waiting, joyously, to welcome me back home.